


At What Cost

by reeyachan



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Murder, mentions of killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25804624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeyachan/pseuds/reeyachan
Summary: The first time he desired to own something—the black kitten that trespassed on his space while he was building sand castles at four years old, the bliss that spread like wildfire in his chest when he scooped it off the grass and met its sunlit eyes, shining like marbles against impassive ones—was also the first time he came to know that such desires cannot be possessed at liberty.
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck
Kudos: 70





	At What Cost

**Author's Note:**

> A Tumblr prompt requested by hisokapegger. Ily.

It’s always been like this.

The first time he desired to own something—the black kitten that trespassed on his space while he was building sand castles at four years old, the bliss that spread like wildfire in his chest when he scooped it off the grass and met its sunlit eyes, shining like marbles against impassive ones—was also the first time he came to know that such desires cannot be possessed at liberty.

Everything came with a price.

His father taught him that.

_“On one condition.” Silva smirks, head cocking to the right, cheek meeting his knuckles in what seemed like a calm yet treacherous stance. He holds his son’s gaze before shifting to the feline in his arms. “If you want to keep the cat, you have to do as I say.”_

As the only son who, upon learning how to comprehend, has since requested but what not to add to his food, he was disappointed. Here he went out of his way to head straight to his father for this specific request, expressing his excitement even, anticipating instant consent, still he was denied of it. Illumi, in his formative years, decoded Silva’s words as disapproval. If he favored it, he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.

_“But why?” he asks when he decided that his little understanding of the world cannot explain why his father is being unreasonable. It is, after all, just a cat._

_“We don’t keep pets because we want them, Illu,” Silva spreads his arms, showcasing the wild beasts that surround his throne. “We keep them because they serve us a purpose. We, assassins, long for nothing, crave for nothing but the blood of our preys in our hands. And I believe it’s time for you to learn that. Come with me on a job and I’ll teach you. After that, you can keep that cat.”_

Illumi believed that Silva was making sense as he spoke. Still, however simple his words had sounded, however easily comprehendible his sentences had been, Illumi’s young mind couldn’t understand what he meant. He knew that they are assassins. He knew that they run an underground business. But he couldn’t put a finger on what it had to do with wanting to have a pet.

Later that day, they were coming home from Illumi’s first ever kill. It was easy for him—a swift slice in the neck. _Good_ , he remembered Silva commending him, a hand on his shoulder as they stood tall in the puddle of blood that had gushed out of the lifeless body on the floor. _Good._ It was a compliment from his father. He should be proud of himself. Yet his arms swayed languidly to his sides as they walked up Kukuroo Mountain, feeling not the wind on his cheeks but the bloodstains on his fingertips, hearing not the twigs crack under his feet but the screams that lingered in his head, smelling not the wet earth but that disgusting metallic scent so sharp he was tasting it in his mouth.

Gotoh handed him the small black beast the soonest he went back out in clean clothes, thoughtless as he stared into its eyes, detached from reality, now oblivious as to why his butler was giving him a cat. But for a brief moment, he recalled that he wanted it. For a brief moment, he wondered why the ecstatic sensation he had felt when he first held it had disappeared. For a brief moment, he spiraled into the abyss and saw nothing but gore and death.

He kept the cat, not anymore because he desired to have it, but because it was supposed to be his prize for doing good on his first job. But eventually, Silva had him slit its throat, and it was the first time in seven years that he hesitated in killing.

_“Don’t cry.” Silva’s tone is grave and frightening. “Illu, you have to know by now that it’s all part of your training. We don’t need pets. We don’t need friends. They only make us weak. This kill is disappointing. Find another cat or a dog at once. You must get used to impartiality. We only need things that serve us a purpose.”_

And somehow, in between those lines, he understood.

_“Yes, father.”_

_“Good.”_

It’s always been like that. Again, and again, and again. A never-ending rue. An infinite black hole. Kill after kill after kill. He grew up to be excellent. A master in the art of assassination. No qualms. No hesitations. Precise. Impeccable. Graceful. Intelligent. Strategic.

_Good._

“Assassins aren’t supposed to have friends, right?” Hisoka, leaning on the bar, grabs his glass of whiskey, circling the ice in it as his melodic hum paints a small smile on his face. “Your daddy might throw you out if he finds out about me,” he sings in a jester’s tone, shoulders shuddering as snickers escape his throat.

“We’re not friends, Hisoka. I consider you a useful informant.” Illumi pulls a chair next to him, swiftly flicking a strand of hair from his face as he blankly turns to meet his impish gaze. “Also, you are my client.”

Hisoka’s snickers transforms into amused laughter, ending them himself by sighing. “You’re so harsh, Illumi. That’s what I like that about you. But I’ll bet you’ll cry when you finally kill me.”

For years, he had done well. For years, he lived up to the Zoldyck standard, bearing the words of his father and mother in his head, attaching them in his system as fuel to his fire. He must. He must keep them afloat. He mustn’t fail. Not this time. Not after years of tortured practice.

_Everything comes with a price._

As Illumi releases the friction that held their stare, he turns to the window, thoughtless and unemotional once more, as what he was trained to display. “No,” he mutters casually. “I’m used to it.”


End file.
